Recently, I have been waking up from a recurring nightmare. It harkens back to the dark days of my childhood. Specifically it’s this haunting image of the fifth grade. The fifth grade was already a particularly dark time for me. My teacher was an elderly obese bitch named Mrs. West who wore an eyepatch. I’m not kidding. It almost ruined pirates for me a little. One time she made me clean up another student’s blood off a chair because of a blind accusation from a shit-head in my class named Ryan. I don’t remember his last name but if I did I would probably link to his loser facebook profile right here and you could see what kind of an idiot he is.
Anyway, this is about one particular traumatic event. What is waking me up with cold sweats and the the sensation that my entire decision making process has been sullied comes down to math class. You know, 5th grade math where you learn the same shit you learned in 2nd, 3rd, and 4th grade again? That math class. One day in that class everything began south. I will forever bear the burden of learning what it means to be confused and unconfident that day.
You see, Mrs. West was a pretty inept of bag of fat and hatred. To teach math, the most basic of all elementary school subjects, she had to employ the use of a teacher’s aide. I don’t remember the name of the teacher’s aide. (Aid? AIDS?) I’m gonna call her Mrs. Turtle Fetus. The class had been split up into groups of 6-8 bright eyed already-learned-this-three-times fifth graders. We all had in our mathematical arsenals a wide variety of ways to multiply and divide: let alone add and subtract. It didn’t matter. Arithmetic if your bitch when you’re a 5th grader. You don’t even need to care about whole numbers, you can do fractions like it’s nobody’s business. But I digress. The point here is that we all basically knew how to do math and were just waiting for middle school to start so we could start feeling each other up and listening to alternative rock and Puff Daddy, because that’s what was cool back then.
So we’re sitting there and we’re supposed to all solve the same math problem. That is, the six-to-eight of us that Mrs. Turtle Fetus was overseeing. We were each supposed to pick a unique method of solving our problem and I picked the tried and true Lattice Square. It involved no double-digit numbers and as a 5th grader I still found something mildly humorous in that it sounded like “lettuce.”
We go around the circle, directed by our egg-less embryo of a teacher’s aid. Everyone has their ridiculous number circle or just-doing-math or number divining method they’ve used. It comes to me and I announce that I’ve used the Lattice Square. Before I even get to describe the genius level of math solving skills I’ve employed, this fat, disgusting slut of a 5th Grader Katie Gray shouts out that the lattice square is “only for checking!” Only for checking? What the hell does that mean? It’s math, I’ll do math how I want, idiot. I glare. I try to kill her with the boundless hate that I have for her useless life. It turns out that I’m not capable of doing that yet. Someday, Katie Gray, I will destroy you with pure hate energy.
Worse yet, a chorus of the little fifth grade assholes rings out in agreement with the lie that has just emerged from the be-toothed anus on her face. I am shunned. I never knew that there were rules about which correct way to go about something. It would forever add a level of hesitancy to all my planning and decision making. That fat idiot had ruined my life.
Well Katie Gray, I can’t look find you on facebook. I guess you married someone. An ex-con or maybe a blind guy or perhaps a mentally challenged man. Most likely, all three. You’ve probably pooped out a couple of disgusting offspring who are ruining the lives of their classmates now. I hope you’re proud of yourself. Me? I’m living the dream now more than ever. I’m allowed to drink soda any time of the day and I play Battletoads whenever I feel like it. Try as you might have your attempt really didn’t do as much long term damage as you’d hoped. Hope you’re choking on a chicken bone while you read this. I hate you.